Boxing is both a sport and an art form. It’s as physical as it is mental and spiritual. But above all else, it’s pure and simple. That’s why it lends itself to cinema so gracefully. Films like “Rocky,” “The Fighter” and the underappreciated “Cinderella Man,” for instance, capture the literal, psychological and sometimes existential power within the ring beautifully, and they use that said power to, ahem, pack a wallop of a punch. It’s an emotional, captivating and rousing experience when seen at its finest, and that’s what makes “Hands of Stone,” writer-director Jonathan Jakubowicz’s Roberto Durán biopic, such an underwhelming spectacle. An unsavory, underdeveloped and uninspired bore, it takes too many blows and doesn’t give nearly enough counterpunches. It doesn’t cut. It doesn’t bleed. It doesn’t even hit. Hell, it barely puts up a fight. It comes out the gate frail and disoriented, already down for the count before the picture has started.
In typical sports biopic fashion, “Hands of Stone” follows Edgar Ramirez’s Duran all throughout his expansive career. We see his humble upbringing, as a poor child living on stolen goods with his single mother and fellow impoverished local Panamanian children. We watch him develop into early adulthood, where Duran fights for the lightweight and middleweight belts, while also stealing the heart of upper-class beauty Felicidad Iglesias (Ana de Armas). She’ll eventually father his five children: four boys and one girl, all of whom the father wants to name Roberto. We then see Duran throughout his fame-driven later years, where he studies under the tutelage of the wise-but-troubled trainer Ray Arcel (Robert De Niro), before success and ego get to the fighter’s beaten head. Then we witness Duran’s tremendous downfall, notably by the hand of his equal, Sugar Ray Leonard (Usher Raymond IV), only to see Roberto’s eventual upswing in his later bouts to redeem his tarnished name.
It’s a bland, almost perfunctory effort, if not a severely compromised one, with seemingly little-to-no heart guiding it through its predictability, clumsy storytelling and general familiarity. If this was a passion project for Jakubowicz, it certainly doesn’t feel like it. There’s little artistry or style here; nearly every frame is stale, flat and practically lifeless. It’s unremarkable in nearly every sense, primarily because Jakubowicz fails to make Duran’s story seem worth the investment, counteracting against the fighter’s tremendous feats. Narratively, it plays like multiple “Rocky” movies thrown together, without any of the impact, intuition or proper character development that made those films (well, at least the better ones) hold their own.
Ramirez does a commendable-enough job in the lead role, but there’s little sympathy or compassion given to his lead, whose nickname gives “Hands of Stone” its title (even though it’s barely ever uttered here). Jakubowicz makes Duran often appear brutish, ill-tempered and fairly ungrateful of those who support him. Therefore, it’s hard to be charmed, captivated or taken by his story, let alone root for the opposition of his struggles.
To make matter worse, “Hands of Stone” is often struggles with serious pacing issues. Subplots involving Arcel’s junkie daughter (Drena De Niro, Robert’s real-life adopted daughter), are introduced and unceremoniously dropped. Characters like John Turturro’s mobster Frankie Carbo and Ellen Barkin’s Stephanie Arcel, Ray’s worried-but-supportive wife, are thrust into the narrative only when it’s convenient. And the film’s general structure — accompanied with more cuts-to-black than I could possibly remember — make “Hands of Stone” seem mechanical and artless in its form. It drives us through the story in rather workman fashion, without enthusiasm or zeal, and it’s only the supporting performances that occasionally give it zest.
“Hands of Stone” is De Niro’s third boxing picture, and it most definitely leans closer towards “Grudge Match” than “Raging Bull.” But his performance isn’t bad; in fact, in a few key monologues, the actor displays flashes of greatness that defined some of his best roles. But in a film that can’t quite decide if he’s the second lead or merely a supporting player, De Niro’s sporadically good work is sliced, hobbled and sometimes disregarded, only allowing us to see him in important narrative beats when he could (and would) excel in some more quiet character moments. Usher, similarly, also gives a solid performance, but the musician-turned-actor is rarely allowed to show it. His Sugar Ray is suave and fairly inspired, and if given the chance, he might’ve carried a better film. The same can maybe be said for Reg E. Cathey’s oddly mesmerizing, scene-stealing portrayal of Don King. I’d pay hard dollars to see a biopic based on his rather unconventional take on the legendary figure. He never fails to make an impression, no matter how little he’s seen, and that’s more than I can say for the rest of this film.
Hopefully “Bleed For This” will become this year’s “Creed,” because “Hands of Stone” is ultimately 2016’s “Southpaw.” There’s likely a great wealth of potential found in Duran’s still-ongoing life story, but if that’s the case, Jakubowicz doesn’t give the attention, care and craftsmanship it deserves. Stagnant and limp in ways boxing movies should never be, this is among the dullest and stilted films to come from the subgenre in some time. If pitted amongst the better boxing films of our time, or within De Niro’s filmography, “Hands of Stone” barely has a leg to stand. It’s truly one big swing-and-a-miss for everyone involved, and hardly a movie befitting a champion. [D+]